


Postcards

by yourebrilliant



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, Pre-OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourebrilliant/pseuds/yourebrilliant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I had Interpol warrants, they were just as good</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postcards

Neal had been gone for a month by the time Mozzie discretely informed Peter that Neal’s cache of illegally acquired items had been quietly returned. Both he and Neal had agreed that it had to be done if Neal were ever to be free of his past, but Neal couldn’t deal with it without putting himself at risk of arrest and Peter would have been forced to arrest Neal for every stolen item they found. He wondered, briefly, if Sara Ellis had suddenly discovered the stolen Raphael in her office one morning.

Peter thanked Mozzie and slept better that night. The next morning, as if he had known, there was a postcard on the mat. As per his promise, Neal was sending postcards this time. So far Peter and El had received missives from Italy, France, and Germany. Smiling already, Peter retrieved the postcard – a picture of the Amalienborg Palace – and turned it over.

_Burkes,_

_Copenhagen is as beautiful as I remember. El, I’ve seen La Glace and will try to bring you whatever will survive the trip. Not robbing a palace, but I do wish you were here._

_Catch you later,_

_Sundance_

‘Honey, your tea’s- oh,’ El, noticed the card in Peter’s hands and came over. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, noticing the frown line that had appeared on Peter’s forehead.

Peter handed over the postcard. ‘I don’t know, does he sound-’

‘Lonely,’ El stated, having scanned the card. ‘He sounds lonely.’

Peter nodded. ‘Yeah, I got that too.’ He paused. ‘I’ve got to go to work,’ he said, pressing a kiss to El’s forehead and heading out. As he buckled in and pulled out into traffic, Peter looked over at the empty passenger seat and sighed.

~*~*~

In the middle of a large white hotel room in France, remarkably like large white hotel rooms in Italy, Germany, and Denmark, Neal stared up at the ceiling and sighed. Europe was indeed as beautiful as he remembered, and there had been some novelty in knowing that there was no Interpol on his tail, that every bill was legally paid for with the profits of the Greatest Cake Bakery. Actually, after the pasticerrias in Italy, Kafe und Küchen in Germany and La Glace in Copenhagen, he could probably write the whole trip off as research.

And yet. There was something hollow about it all. What was the point of visiting beautiful places if there was no one to share them with? Somehow, after four years of working, eating, bickering, and relaxing together, Neal had gotten used to having Peter nearby. Visiting the museums wasn’t the same without Peter squinting at him and trying to figure out if any of the pieces were Neal’s. And art galleries were somehow lacking without Peter complaining about ridiculously overinflated prices and warning Neal not to touch anything. Even the food was less tasty without El to share the experience and gang up against Peter’s undereducated palate.

Neal sighed again. He’d been ruined by the Burkes. And now he missed them.

Suddenly there was a knocking on his door. ‘ _Ne pas déranger!_ ’ he called automatically.

‘Neal,’ a shockingly familiar voice called, ‘open the door.’

In seconds, Neal had flung himself out of bed, wrenched open the door and dragged each of them into an enthusiastic hug. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, grinning broadly. ‘How did you find me?’

El smiled at him. ‘Oh, honey, you invited us,’ she said, her tone filled with sympathy and understanding as she flourished his latest post card.

‘And, _we_ didn’t find you.’ Reaching into his jacket pocket, Peter retrieved a piece of FBI headed stationary and handed it to Neal.

_Neal, we’re the FBI. You’re good, but we’re better._

Enjoy Paris, Diana (and Clinton)

Smiling bemusedly, Neal looked up at El and Peter, and asked ‘Paris?’

Peter shrugged awkwardly. El, reached out and stroked Neal’s arm. ‘Well, we had some vacation time to take, and I’ve never seen Paris-’

‘Nor has Neal,’ Peter interrupted. Neal flashed him a look of mild irritation.

‘Really?’ El looked shocked.

Neal coughed, and muttered, ‘I had to go back to New York before I got to Paris.’

‘Oh. Oh! Sweetie,’ she said, reaching out and wrapping him in a hug. Neal closed his eyes and held her close, revelling in the contact as her warmth and affection washed away the memories. ‘So,’ she said, pulling back and smiling up at him - Neal pretended not to notice the kick she aimed at Peter’s ankle - ‘we’ll all get to experience it for the first time. Together.’ Neal looked at Peter, who smiled encouragingly at him.

‘Yes,’ Neal said happily. ‘Yes, we will.’


End file.
